Page 33 of No Sweeter Poison

Lettie leans over my desk and waves a hand in front of my face.

“What?”

The corners of her mouth curl into a frown. “Where did your mind go, hermano?”

“Where it always does,” I answer honestly.

She expels a breath as she sits down across from me. Today she looks so much like our mother that I have to blink twice to make sure it isn’t really her. The platinum blonde looks like it’s here to stay but even still, the resemblance is uncanny. In a fitted, navy-blue pencil skirt and blazer combination, the different hues in her honey brown eyes are emphasized. Everything from the way she quirks a soft brow to the curve of her mouth when she smiles is just like Mom.

The painting above the fireplace is hers. It was one of the last pieces she did before going away. Mom always complained how the office was too gory and masculine looking. Paneled, dark wood walls, leather seats, stocked bookshelves, and a massive, imposing desk. So she painted a colorful meadow with light purple mountains and hoped that it would be enough to enliven the place.

In reality, it looks odd and mix-matched here but I don’t have the heart to move it. It would be like making Mom disappear from the place she loved most. She and Dad would spend hours in this office together, working side by side, reading, making decisions for the family and the business. Whatever she left of herself here, I’ll leave it on its pedestal for the day she finally decides to come back.

“We need to do something about Dahlia,” she tells me. “Her birthday is in a few days. Why don’t we do something nice for her? Cut a cake, maybe let her FaceTime Karina.”

My attention leaves the painting above the mantel. I look at her. “What?”

She gets up and walks around the desk. Snatches the keys hanging from the belt loop on my pants and unlocks the top drawer. Inside a thick, yellow manilla envelope are Dahlia’s things. Wallet, passport, hotel room key. Lettie pulls out the wallet and produces a New York State ID, pointing to the DOB.

Dahlia turns twenty-two this Saturday.

What a way to spend a birthday.

“She feels like a prisoner here. Nothing’s going to change unless she has some freedom.”

I try not to let my disdain show. “If being a prisoner is what keeps her safe, then so be it.”

The first week was chaos. The arguments, the tantrums, the number of security guards I had to station around her bedroom so she didn’t try to flee every five minutes. Not to mention the chair she flung out her bedroom window. In the time since then, she’s resigned herself to her current situation and instead, chooses a hunger strike as her preferred method of pissing me off. Lettie is the only person she tolerates enough to let within a ten-mile radius of her bedroom door. Must be because she’s the only woman here who speaks English.

Other than that, she ignores everyone. Always keeps the lights off, never leaves, won’t even come out at night when the entire house is asleep. I’ve done everything to try and make her more comfortable. To make her understand that this is for her safety and not a punishment. All my efforts thus far have been futile so I’ve stopped trying. Let her rot in that room. Better here than dead in a ditch somewhere.

Or worse.

“Do whatever you want.” I stand up. “Abuelo needs me in Ibiza so I’ll be gone a few days. When I get back, she better be under control.”

Lettie rolls her eyes and salutes me. “Si, patrón.”

Can’t wait for this to crash and burn.

D ahlia

Sunlight travels through my fingers, the shadow of my hand stretching across the floor like claws reaching for the edge of freedom. They stop right at the threshold of the balcony doors where two weeks ago, I sent a chair flying through the glass.

In my defense, I was in a very bad mood that day.

My original plan to be docile, quiet, and calculating have failed on account of my raging temper and utter impatience. No matter how many times I’m told that this is for my safety and not a punishment, anger still lingers in my chest like a bad cold, one that no amount of medicine or hot teas can get rid of. I’m angry with Alejandro for having taken me and angry at Lettie and Diego for allowing it no matter how irrational that sounds. Most of all, I’m angry with myself for letting this happen.

Why did I ever accept his invitation in the first place? Was I really that infatuated by him or was I more captivated by the idea of him? I had fantasies in my head of what this trip was going to be like. Karina and I exploring Barcelona and everything beyond that for three long months, soaking up the summer sun, getting tan and having fun. We’d take boat trips and train rides and maybe get lost. End up in some tiny village that doesn’t exist on a map, find our way to a local bar, get crazy drunk, and hitch a ride on the back of a mule. Or we’d eat some bad food at a seafood place and puke our guts out in public and it’d be gross and terrible but at least we’d have a story to tell when we got home.

I was looking forward to making memories.

I won’t deny that a part of me longed for a little romance too. It’s hard to see Karina drifting away from me, knowing that her marriage to Brent will one day supersede her relationship with me. I thought that if I could find someone or something else to fill her place then the loss wouldn’t be so painful. What better way to spread my wings than to find a summer fling?

That plan certainly crashed and burned.

I’m furious with myself for letting Alejandro get so close, hurt that he betrayed me, and humiliated that I believed there was something between us to begin with.

Now I spend my days lying on the couch, head resting on the armrest, looking out the window as if the sun will grow wings and carry me away from here. I never thought I'd miss home as much as I do right now.